


And Shows Me Paradise

by AmberDiceless



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale is a BAMF of the Lord, Body Swap, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Furniture abuse, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Nightmares, No Beta We Die Like Man-Shaped Beings, Prayer, That Night At Crowley's Flat, emotional exhaustion, references to suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 11:36:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21391513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmberDiceless/pseuds/AmberDiceless
Summary: In which it is shown that trauma and regret can arise from unexpected sources, good housekeeping is a must, and dreamsstilldon't make any damn sense.(AKA, my obligatory 'That Night at Crowley's Flat' fic.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 56
Kudos: 328





	And Shows Me Paradise

“You look tired.”

Generally speaking, this wasn't the sort of thing Aziraphale was in the habit of saying to Crowley.

One of the unspoken stipulations to the Arrangement was that they maintain a certain reserve, keeping personal remarks to a minimum and steering clear of subjects that struck too close to home. With the odd exception that proved the rule, they'd managed to avoid overstepping those nebulous boundaries remarkably well for such a long time, it felt strange to cross them deliberately now, even with such an innocuous observation.

But this had hardly been a usual sort of day. Along with his and Crowley's respective careers, the Arrangement as it had stood for hundreds of years had effectively ceased to exist at Tadfield Airbase, or sometime in the chaotic hours leading up to it. What was left would need not just major revisions, but a complete overhaul.

Besides, it was only the truth. A bit of an understatement, really.

Though he was still on his feet, and gamely trying to put a good face on things, Crowley had been uncharacteristically quiet the whole bus ride home. He'd also put a much bigger dent in the contents of the bottle they'd been passing back and forth than Aziraphale had. Toward the end of the trip he'd been drooping noticeably, and Aziraphale had thought he might nod off; though he hadn't, quite, before they reached their stop.

He'd swayed a bit on the lift up to his flat, standing with a slight, but unmistakable slump to his shoulders.

Aziraphale certainly couldn't fault him for any of that. Those last few days leading up to what they'd thought would be the end had been among the most trying he could remember in the six thousand years since Eden.

They'd seen many, many bleak and terrible things come to pass, he and Crowley. As rarely as either of them alluded to it, neither had ever walked away unmoved or unmarked by the cruelties this world could inflict on the countless souls who'd passed through it. Always before, though, whatever war or plague or disaster or atrocity had come along, there'd been a light at the end of the tunnel—the knowledge that no matter how awful things might look today, in the end, it must pass, as these things always did. All they had to do was hold out long enough to make it through to the other side in one piece.

This time, though, had been different. If Heaven and Hell had succeeded in carrying out their plans, nothing would ever have been right again. And as arrogant as it may have been, in retrospect, for a pair of slightly inept otherworldly field agents to assign so much importance to their own roles in such a cosmic production, the _weight_ of that responsibility had felt all too real. As had all the personal distress that came attached, and now, the inevitable fallout.

Aziraphale had his own share of that to cope with. Still, he couldn't help but think Crowley had taken the brunt.

The loss of the Bentley had hit him hard. He'd loved that old car more than some humans loved their own families. And as much as he'd been preoccupied with the impending Apocalypse, Aziraphale hadn't failed to notice that, or the battered state of both the car and its owner when they'd pulled up at the gates. Nor had he forgotten what Crowley had told him before all that, back at...well, wherever he'd found him.

_I lost my best friend. _ Although Aziraphale hadn't been able to see into the material plane at the time, it had been clear enough from the broken hitch in the demon's voice, if not from the words themselves, that he'd been grieving.

In retrospect, Aziraphale wished (not for the first time in their very long acquaintance) that he could have been gentler with Crowley at that moment. But his own situation had been pressing, to say the least, and there simply hadn't been  _time _ to inquire into the matter any further, even if he'd felt it was his place to pry.

He wasn't sure how to make it up to Crowley now, and was still working on figuring out how (or whether) to broach the subject. But at the very least, he was free now to offer his undivided attention.

“'m fine,” the demon was saying, dully and not all that convincingly. He'd been fumbling for his keys on the way up, only to stop now and swear softly when he caught sight of his front door—standing wide open, itself intact, but its frame dented and splintered as though by a forcible entry.

“What happened here?” Aziraphale looked the damage over, then quietly miracled it away, a bit concerned that Crowley had apparently forgotten all about it. And wondering, now, what _else_ had happened to him in all the madness of the past several days that he hadn't got around to mentioning.

“Hastur and Ligur,” Crowley explained. “Couple of Hell's toadies. Literally—I think they had about one toad's worth of brain cells between them. They showed up here looking to haul me in...well, about the time you rang, just before things really went off the rails.” He walked inside, turning on a few lights he normally didn't bother with. “Not to worry, they're long gone; Ligur's dead, and Hastur's short a corporation.

“C'm'on in, angel. Make yourself at home. The place is a bit on the spartan side, I'm afraid. I don't get many visitors.”

“No worries,” Aziraphale said, stepping inside and peering around curiously. 'Spartan' wasn't quite the word he'd have chosen, he thought. The décor was a bit minimalistic, yes (apart from a few glaring exceptions—good Lord, that sculpture was going to take a bit of processing. Later. _...much_ later) but it looked comfortable enough, and it was certainly all very newfangled and _stylish_. Still, there was something about the place...

After a moment, he identified what seemed off. Everything he saw had a static, almost unused air about it, as though no one actually lived here. The apartment was meticulously well-maintained, not so much as a speck of dust or a patch of wear anywhere to be seen; but it didn't feel  _cared _ for.  _More like a department store display than a home,_ he thought with a small pang.

He wasn't about to critize when Crowley had been kind enough to put him up for the night, however.

_To say the least. Be honest--you're lucky he's still speaking to you after the awful things you said to him, let alone still talking about 'our own side.' _ And what would he have done, if Crowley  _hadn't_ offered, if he'd chosen instead to hold him to his ill-considered words at the bandstand...he hastily shut down that line of thinking before it threatened his already somewhat tenuous grip on his composure.

“It's lovely. Very...spacious,” he said aloud with a wry smile. “And so well-organized. I don't think I'd ever be able to find anything in such a tidy place.” He preferred his own living spaces comfortably cluttered. Much like his thoughts--and as _un_like the shining, sterile halls of Heaven as possible.

Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets and made a noncommittal sound, glancing around disinterestedly. “Yeah, it's all right. View's decent. Keeps the rain off. Landlord hasn't come 'round about the rent since about 1990...”

Aziraphale gave him an apprehensive look. “Oh. You didn't...?”

“Not _intentionally.” _The sight of that familiar smirk, more than anything else since they'd left the airbase, did a good deal to restore the angel's sense that all was once again right with the world--even if it did come off as a bit forced. And even if they had a few more critical loose ends to tie up before that would really be true.

“I warned him he should always knock before he came in,” Crowley added. “Not my fault he couldn't tell a run-of-the-mill electrical outage from one caused by the interference from an open conduit to Dis.”

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale murmured, covering his mouth as though in dismay. If it actually served to hide an upward twitch at the corner of his lips that he couldn't quite suppress, well, Crowley didn't need to know that.

“Ahh, don't fret. I expect he fits right in Down There. Real stickler for rules and codes and protocols, that one...they've probably got him in charge of torture chamber inspections.” The demon inclined his head toward the door to his office and headed that way, gesturing for Aziraphale to follow. “Anyway, the sofa's through here. Don't mind the houseplants, they can be a bit skittish..."

Trying to think of a polite way to ask what on earth he meant by that, Aziraphale started to follow, but halted and looked around again with a frown when he caught a faint suggestion of something in the air that felt  _decidedly_ out of place in a demon's residence.

A glint of wetness on the floor just beyond the doorway, and a glob of misshapen plastic lying next to it, were the only things that seemed amiss. Fortunately, that was enough to set off loud warning klaxons in Aziraphale's head.

“_Crowley!”_ He darted forward, catching hold of Crowley and dragging him back barely in time to stop him from walking through the door and right into the deceptively innocent-looking puddle of fluid on the other side.

“Wh--?! Fuck's sake, angel! What're you--” Catching his balance with some difficulty, Crowley's indignant question died away as he got a good look at the angel's expression. Following Aziraphale's wide-eyed gaze to the puddle and the remains of the bucket, he backpedalled hastily several steps. _“Oh...”_

“Is that what I think it is?” Aziraphale asked him, instinctively moving to place himself between his friend and the liquid. Though he needn't really have asked; the ashen color Crowley had just turned had already removed any doubt from his mind.

“Yeah...” Crowley swallowed audibly, staring at the stuff over his shoulder. “I...I'd set a booby trap above the door before they got here. Worked like a charm. Wiped Ligur right off the face of existence...”

Feeling the blood drain from his own face as it sank in what would have happened if he hadn't been there, Aziraphale did something else he'd very rarely done in the six thousand years they'd known each other: he moved right into Crowley's personal space uninvited, reaching out to take hold of his friend by the shoulders.

“Crowley—look at me, please,” he said firmly, willing his voice as calm and steady as he could, “you told me not five minutes ago that Ligur was dead. And you _forgot_that the holy water that killed him was still unsecured in your home?” He tightened his grip just a bit, searching Crowley's face intently, unable to hide just how much the near-miss had frightened him. “Forgive me, but are you _certain_ you're all right? It's so unlike you to make that kind of mistake.”

“I...” Crowley looked at him and then away, drew back a little, shoved his sunglasses up to rub irritably at his eyes, and then removed them entirely. With those out of the way, the shadows of fatigue around his eyes were all too plainly obvious. He swallowed again, and for a moment Aziraphale thought he was going to be sick.

“Honestly?” he said finally, his voice cracking just a bit. “No, I'm not all right.” He stumbled back another few steps, almost tripped over a very expensive coffee table, and wound up sitting on it, not entirely by choice. “Not even close. I'm _knackered,_ angel. I mean, this whole week it's just been one bloody crisis after another, hasn't it?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to agree, but Crowley forged on, answering his own question. “Wrong kid! World's ending--fish stew, bananas and all! Alpha Centauri! Homicidal Hellprats at the door!” He waved a hand in that general direction for emphasis, carrying on raggedly, a bit glassy-eyed, “And then we're not friends anymore, but I'm ringing you _anyway,_ because I'm just that big a sap, apparently, but you're not answering and I pull up and the, the...the bookshop's burning.

“And y...” His voice failed him altogether for a second, and then came back in pitched a half-key or so higher. “...you've g-gone. --gone _missing. _ But then you're back, sort of, and next thing I'm careening toward some backwater town nobody's ever heard of, and lo and behold, the M25's one great big infernal Rotissomat! 'Caution: Hail the Great Beast, Devourer of Worlds, next 117 miles!'” He ran a hand agitatedly through his hair. “How the Hell'd I not see _that_ one coming? My bright idea, right?”

“And then the car's on fire...oop, no, my mistake, car's exploding. Boom!! Horsepeople all over the place! Gabriel, still an unparalleled tosser six thousand years in! And oh, of course, the _pièce de résistance--_good old Lucifer's dropping by for a nosh! _Swell!_ And everyone's all 'Fuck me, it's Satan! Do something, Crowley', like I walk around with the soddin' Winchester brothers in my back pocket, but sure, sure. Fine. No problem. Just give us a moment while I remember how to _halt time in its course, _I think I came across a YouTube tutorial just last week...!”

Growing more and more concerned as the tirade went on—he knew from long experience that Crowley wasn't anywhere near drunk enough to be carrying on like this, for one thing--Aziraphale hesitated, then reached out and rested a hand lightly between his shoulder blades.

(Such a simple gesture. Something he could have done so easily hundreds of times in the past...if...)

“Crowley, dear,” he said softly, schooling the timbre of regret from his words. “Breathe.”

Dropping his head into his hands, the demon drew a deep, shuddering breath and slowly let it out again. Aziraphale stayed quiet beside him, lending whatever steadying influence his presence was good for as he worked to pull himself together.

“And now that it's _done,”_ he went on finally, and much more quietly, “and I don't have to buck up and rush on to the next catastrophe...”

“It's all crashing down on you at once?” Chastened by some of the things that had just come tumbling out, and feeling more than a little weary himself, Aziraphale moved a short distance off and perched gingerly on a nearby chair, trying not to be too self-conscious that he might rumple the pristine upholstery. “When you put it that way, I can't really blame you. It _has_ been a very difficult few days.”

“Difficult?” Crowley echoed bemusedly, dropping his hands. If he'd seemed a bit under the weather before, now he looked positively haggard. “Sorting out who'd take credit for the Enlightenment was 'difficult.'” He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees, his gaze drawn back reluctantly to the spot where Ligur had died. “Explaining to home office why the whole Y2k thing was a bust, _that_ was difficult. This week, it's been...” He rubbed his forehead. “I got nothing, angel.”

Aziraphale nodded soberly. “Well. It _is_ done now, thank goodness. The worst of it, at least.” _I hope. _“But think carefully, now: is there anything else here in your flat that could still be dangerous?”

Crowley frowned slightly, considering, then shook his head. “Don't think so. I left via the landline right after that happened,” he nodded toward the puddle, “and Hastur followed me the same way. Haven't been back since, til now.

“Poor Ligur,” he added, almost as though to himself. “You know, he wasn't...” And then he pre-emptively corrected himself, raising his eyebrows, “Well, no, yeah, he actually _was_ that bad. Hell's man, through and through, and he'd have flayed me alive as soon as looked at me. I won't miss him one bit.

“Still, though. I'm not sure even he deserved to go out like that.” He glanced up at Aziraphale with a pained half-smile. “You should've heard Hastur caterwauling when that bucket dropped. I'd have been right there with him, if I hadn't known it was coming. It was....” He looked away with a shudder. “_Horrible.”_

“I'm sorry,” Aziraphale murmured, eyes downcast. He couldn't begin to imagine what that must have been like—would prefer not to even try. Every demon had been an angel, once upon a time. To have to watch one of his own kin, even an Enemy, simply dissolve away like that, let alone to be the one responsible...

“It...doesn't sound as though you had much choice, though,” he added, unwilling to leave it at that. Crowley had a right to defend himself, and it wasn't his fault Hell had sent a goon squad after him—or that they'd tried to bring about the end of the world in the first place, for that matter. “It was either you or him.”

“No, you're right. I didn't. I'd never actually seen it happen before in person, that's all. And I hope I never do again.” Crowley scrubbed tiredly at his face with both hands.

“It's the weirdest thing,” he went on, so low Aziraphale had to lean in a bit to hear. “Completely absurd. You'll laugh. I should be laughing. Stupidest most sentimental drivel I—it's just...nobody's got _friends_ Down There. Not really. But those two had been lurking together for as long as I can remember. Two peas in a pod, you know, if you saw Ligur hanging around then you knew Hastur must be somewhere nearby. And I can't stop thinking...”

He swallowed hard. “I--I killed his best friend. Permanently. Right there in front of him. And there was nothing he could....” He broke off, raised his hands and let them fall, giving the angel a haunted look. “I mean, there was never any love lost between us. But how much must he hate me now?”

“Crowley...” Aziraphale shook his head slightly, speaking around a lump in his own throat. “Oh, my dear. If he does, then that is his burden to bear. But there is _nothing_ stupid or absurd about having compassion for one's enemies.”

To love one another—yes, even, and perhaps especially, one's adversaries--was arguably the most important of all commandments. When had Heaven itself lost sight of that? And how was it that Crowley, alone out of all the Fallen, seemed to have held onto that ability?

As for Aziraphale, well, he'd endlessly questioned his own understanding of that directive and how best to carry it out, but never the order itself.

“Good gracious, wherever would you and I be right now, if...” He dropped his eyes, lacing his fingers together and smiling ruefully. “Well. Obviously, _some_ enemies make it harder than others.”

“Well, it needs to come with a bloody toggle switch,” Crowley grumbled. “Can't go getting all weepy-eyed over murdering someone who meant to murder me, for Somebody's sake.” He paused. “I was trying not to think about it, you know? Put it out of my head, bigger things to worry about.” He gave an unamused huff. “Funny how the one time that actually _worked,_ it almost got me killed.”

It _wasn't_ funny, not in the slightest, but at least it was something Aziraphale could understand. “That does make sense.” He'd forgotten in all the kerfuffle that his own beloved bookshop had been destroyed, after all, and for much the same reason. Even now, that hadn't fully sunk in. It still felt surreal, like a bad dream he couldn't shake. He supposed the reality wouldn't truly hit him until he saw what remained of the place for himself.

Understandable or not, though, it was _dangerous; _neither one of them could afford to be this off-balance right now. The Apocalypse might be cancelled, but the two of them, personally, weren't out of the woods yet.

“Crowley...dear boy, you need to get some rest,” he said gently. “We both do.”

“Right...” Crowley blinked a couple of times and sighed, gathering and slowly levering himself up off the table. “Right. Just let me clean up that mess. Can't leave it like that...”

Aziraphale rose as well, glancing back at the lethal pool, glimmering inoffensively on the otherwise immaculate floor as though it hadn't so recently obliterated an immortal being. “Let me worry about that. You just go on and have a lie-down.”

Crowley shook his head slightly, regarding him blearily. “I appreciate it. I do. But it's got to be done just so to properly neutralize the stuff. There's a ritual...” He frowned and glanced around, trying to pull his thoughts together in preparation.

The angel nodded. “I know the ritual. Several of them, in fact. It's fairly simple.”

Crowley's eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You do?” And he _almost_ smiled. “Now, whatever would possess a very proper upstanding angel such as yourself, metaphorically speaking, to learn to _de_sanctify holy water? Or anything else?”

Dropping his eyes, Aziraphale cleared his throat, clasping his hands behind him. “Well, after all, knowledge is knowledge,” he said loftily. “And one can never be sure when these things might unexpectedly come in handy.”

Especially when one has just handed a dear old friend the metaphysical equivalent of a flask of concentrated fluoroantimonic acid.

“That's...if you trust I'd do it correctly, of course,” he added more seriously, fully prepared to understand if Crowley didn't. His last sojourn into the arcane hadn't turned out so well. Though in fairness, it couldn't be said the spell hadn't _worked.__1_

“Huh.” Crowley did smile then, if faintly and a bit unsteadily, ignoring the implicit question. “If you're sure, then. I didn't ask you back here to play custodian.”

”I know. I really don't mind. It needs done, and there's no sense you risking it.” Aziraphale smiled somberly back. “Just show me where the sofa is. I'll be fine.”

“All right...” Too tired and strung-out to argue further, Crowley skirted around the holy water with exaggerated caution. “There's supplies in the cabinet there—should be everything you need. Sofa's right over here...”

“Very good.” Aziraphale nodded. “Be off with you, now. Rest well.”

Crowley nodded absently, but stayed where he was, now eyeing the sofa with a slight, thoughtful frown.

“Something the matter?” Aziraphale inquired, going to check the cabinet the demon had indicated.

“Hm? No, nothing's wrong. Just was thinking...it's comfortable enough, but it's a bit narrow, isn't it? For sleeping on.”

Aziraphale glanced up at the sofa and shrugged slightly, turning to reply, _I can always make it a little wider_ (or possibly to formulate a tart rejoinder, if that was supposed to be some sort of sly commentary on his weight,) but the look on Crowley's face stopped him cold.

He knew that slightly wistful expression all too well. And the matching, subdued, almost fragile tone of the observation, now that he thought of it. He'd heard it back in the 60s, and again eleven years ago, and, oh, more times in just these past few days than he could quite bear to think on.

Really, he should have seen this coming. Or maybe he _had,_ and he'd tucked the thought somewhere safely out of the way as soon as it came to him. After millennia of being forced to reconcile uncomfortable ideas with unyielding reality, he'd become exceedingly good at that.

Crowley was sweet on him. That much had been obvious for a very long time. And Aziraphale had been fighting for nearly as long not to admit, even to himself, just how badly he wanted the freedom to return that affection—to accept what Crowley so unreservedly offered, and to give back all the tenderness and comfort his dear, generous, too-often-wounded heart wanted and deserved.

(_'I don't even like you'? _ God was merciful. Had to be. Otherwise he'd have Fallen for that lie alone.)

He straightened up slowly, studying a pair of candlesticks he'd just pulled out to buy himself a moment's time. _Too fast, _that had always been the problem. Well, one of the problems. And by his standards, simply accepting the invitation to come here tonight had been the equivalent of boarding a transatlantic Concorde flight.2

Taking the hint he was virtually certain Crowley had just dropped would be akin to signing onto a rocket ship launch.

And yet...he was so _tired_ of being careful, and timid, and circumspect. Tired, full stop, really. And rapidly running out of valid excuses. _And_ he knew exactly what would come next if he deflected the tacit invitation--the almost audible slamming shut of a demon's formidable emotional defenses—and he rather thought his heart just wouldn't take it. Not this time, with everything they'd just been through, and knowing what might still lie ahead.

“Crowley. You ridiculous creature,” he said softly at last, a quiet, kind smile robbing the words of any sting. _“Go._ Put your head down, for goodness' sake. I'll...” He gestured toward the puddle, and drew a deep breath, seizing his courage with both hands. “I'll be along, once I've dealt with that and put up a few protections on the door and windows.”

“...??? Oh. Y--” Crowley blinked several times, and the angel watched with mild concern as his poor overtaxed brain struggled to process an answer he clearly hadn't been prepared for. “Ah...right. You—_right.” _He gestured vaguely down the hall._ “_Well, then. I--sure. I'll just. If...”

“Unless,” Aziraphale interrupted before he lost his words altogether, feeling a slight flush start to creep up from under his collar, “I misunderstood you?”

Crowley started to speak, stopped, and tried again. “No,” he said decisively. “Not in the slightest.”

“Splendid. Off you go, then.” Wondering at his own audacity, Aziraphale went back to retrieving candles, adding, “If you're sleeping when I get there...well, then I'll be there when you wake. And won't that be lovely?”

“End of the hall. Last door on the right...” Crowley managed, sounding a bit dazed.

And wasn't it lovely, Aziraphale thought as the demon trudged wearily off to his badly-needed rest, that they could _finally_ think and speak of such things—to begin to sort out their own lives and business, however terrifying that might be in its own right--without having to skulk about in perpetual fear of discovery?

His smile faded as he completed the thought:  _...because we couldn't possibly be in any more trouble with our respective employers than we already are._

They couldn't count on having more than a brief interlude of peace while the celestial and infernal armies were demobilizing. Heaven and Hell would be coming for them both, probably sooner than later.

Trying to shake off the sinking feeling that accompanied that thought, he collected the things he needed, performed the simple ritual, and cleared away every trace of the deadly trap with care. And also with a certain sense of long-awaited relief, being more acutely aware than ever, now, where the holy water had come from in the first place.

How close his worst fears about that had come to being realized, right there before his eyes. But it hadn't happened, and the subliminal worry that had been plaguing him ever since he'd handed that thermos flask over all those years ago could finally be laid to rest.

That done, he checked that the repairs he'd made to the doorframe were sound and that the door itself was properly secured, then carefully traced a number of complex sigils around it.

Crowley had his own protections in place, he noted approvingly, taking care not to do anything that would interfere with them (and noting, with an absurd little flush of pleasure, that they'd been subtly modified to allow _him_ entrance. Some time since, it looked like.) But they hadn't kept Hastur and Ligur out—probably weren't designed to ward off demons, which would have looked suspicious as well as being inconvenient for Crowley himself--and after today's events, anyone else who might come looking to make trouble was liable to be an order of magnitude more powerful than a pair of second-rate Dukes.

These additional markings he was adding would do little more than sound a metaphysical alarm. All of it put together might, at best, slow a really powerful intruder down a bit. With any luck, it would all prove to be unnecessary. But Gabriel had been furious, and Beelzebub more so, and he didn't think he'd be able to shut his eyes even for a few hours without taking at least some modest precautions first.

He repeated the process around several windows, and was working on the last one, when a strange, unsettling feeling came over him. He paused in his scribing, frowning and trying to identify what it was.

It was coming from _inside_ the flat, he realized.

Only then did it dawn on him that the place had been standing open and unattended for hours. Addled with fatigue, neither he nor Crowley had thought to go through and ensure that it really was empty when they'd arrived.

“_AZIRAPHALE!”_

The angel spun in place, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. That had been Crowley's voice calling his name, and it was followed a moment later by a muffled howl that made his every hair stand on end: the sound of a demon in agony. At the same time, the uneasy feeling escalated to a sense of acute distress.

He dropped the paraphernilia he was holding and rushed toward the sound, cursing himself for a fool for letting that bloody sword out of his sight. He didn't need the directions Crowley had given him to find his way to the bedroom; all he really had to do was follow the palpable current of anguish that was thrumming through the flat back to its source.

Looking back on it afterward, he'd wonder if perhaps he might have got a bit carried away. At that moment, though, the only thought in his head was that _someone was hurting Crowley. _

They'd attacked him in his own home. While he _slept,_ the cowards. And sword or no sword, whoever it was, that person was about to be smote to subatomic particles by one profoundly hacked-off Principality.

The door exploded into sawdust, and if Crowley had been in any position to see it happen, he might not have recognized the menacing light-limned figure that strode into his bedroom--wings arched overhead and eyes blazing a fierce silvery-blue--as the same slightly pudgy, hopelessly archaic, wholly ridiculous fussbudget of an angel he'd spent six thousand years rescuing from himself.

What Aziraphale saw was a violent struggle in progress in the middle of a large ornate bed; he heard Crowley cry out hoarsely again, but the words were garbled and unintelligible, and exactly what was happening was masked by shadows and a tangle of luxurious bedclothes. He couldn't identify an enemy, and was forced to dial down his power as he approached so he wouldn't risk harming his friend.

“Crowley?!--_Light,”_ he snapped, squinting a bit in the sudden illumination that sprang up in the confined space. _“Crowley!_ You get the _Hell off him,_ you...!”

Seizing and flinging the heavy coverlet and sheet furiously out of the way, he had only a split second to register that no one else was present. Before Aziraphale could process that, or try to work out why Crowley was thrashing wildly for no obvious reason, the demon snapped upright with a bloodcurdling shriek that rattled objects throughout the flat and cracked the mirror on the opposite wall right down the middle.

“_**BASTARDS!!”**_

Aziraphale took an involuntary step back. He'd seen Crowley upset before; he'd even _thought_ he had seen him lose his composure, more than a few times over the years. But he'd never seen anything remotely like this. And if he lived a hundred thousand more years, he would never forget the look of wild-eyed, rage-fueled _hatred _that was stamped across his friend's face in that awful moment.

_Demonic,_ the angel thought with a sense of dumbstruck realization. Right up until this moment, he wasn't sure he'd truly understood what the word meant—in no small part because he was certain it hadn't been there before. Not in Crowley, who wore his heart on his sleeve far more openly than Aziraphale had ever had the heart to tell him. There was no possible way he could have kept this kind of venom hidden away for six thousand years. This was something new.

If he'd thought for one instant that it was directed at _him,_ he probably would have bolted from the flat and never come back. But whatever enemies Crowley was seeing, they existed only in his mind's eye; he was screaming at a blank wall, and, Aziraphale was quite certain, wasn't even cognizant that anyone else was there.

Besides, all that manifest fury notwithstanding, it wasn't anger that was still pouring off of him in tangible, gut-twisting waves. Not mostly, at least. It was _pain._

Too fast or not—_dangerous_ or not, and oh, yes, it most certainly was that; dangerous and reckless and terrifying, to approach a demon in the throes of such blind distress—he simply didn't have it in him not to respond to that kind of suffering.

“Crowley!” He crawled onto the mattress and took his friend's face in both hands. This close, he could feel an intense _heat_ coming off him. Not like a fever, or Hellfire, or anything Aziraphale could readily identify or explain; it was more as though he'd just passed through a blast furnace. Still not quite present in the waking world, his gaze darted unseeing about the room, falling everywhere except where Aziraphale needed him to focus.

And then he realized with a fresh jolt of alarm that hazy wisps of smoke had begun to rise from Crowley's black silk pajamas and the bedding where he sat.

“_Crowley!” _the angel shouted directly into his face._ “Wake up!_ There's a dear fellow. It's all right. You're home, you're _safe.” _But it still didn't seem to be sinking in; staring right through him as though he wasn't there, Crowley pulled in another deep breath as if to scream again.

Then, just as Aziraphale started to fear he might be forced to shake or strike him to snap him out of it, he remembered that it was his name Crowley had been calling, and added on impulse, “I'm_ here! _ Crowley, do you hear me? Look, I'm right here!”

To his immense relief, _that_ seemed to get through. Crowley's serpentine eyes blinked once, then slowly refocused on him. The aura of anguish and fury wavered, then began to ebb away as recognition filtered in.

Trembling, he let out his breath in a rush, catching it again with an odd sort of gulping sound. One shaking hand came up to grasp at Aziraphale's forearm. “...a-angel?” His voice sounded scratchy and congested, and his face was damp.

_Crying, _Aziraphale realized, first astonished, and then worried all over again. He had never known Crowley to weep before. After six millennia, and the Lord alone knew how many sorrows come and gone, he might have doubted demons even _could,_ if he wasn't seeing it right now with his own eyes.

“That's right. Just as I promised. You were dreaming,” he added softly. Or so he had to assume--what else could it possibly have been? “Shhh, there, now. Whatever it was, it's over.”

Still cradling Crowley's face with one hand, Aziraphale somberly wiped his tears away, murmuring a low reassurance in a tongue that hadn't been spoken on Earth since a tower came toppling down many long, long ages past.

Already trembling, Crowley's shoulders heaved at the gentle touches, and he made the most awful noise, as though his breath was being ripped right out of his chest. And that was all the warning Aziraphale got before the demon lunged at him with all the speed and explosive power of the great serpent he'd once been, almost toppling them both off the mattress.

For one terrible moment, he thought he was in for a fight after all—the very last one he'd ever expected or wanted. Instead, though, Crowley clutched him close and buried his face against his shoulder, shuddering violently and saying...something. The hoarse, halting, muffled words were impossible to make out.

But their meaning came through loud and clear, all the same.

It had been said of the angel Aziraphale that one of his defining traits was _intelligence;_ and, if there were times when he could be a bit willfully slow on the uptake (especially when his own and a good friend's safety seemed to very much depend on his _not_ understanding certain things too well,) he wasn't so dense as to not recognize a metaphorical piano, when it toppled from a metaphorical window, and landed square on his metaphorical head.

_It burned down._

_And y...you've g-gone. --gone **missing.**_

_I lost my best friend._

“Oh_...oh.” _Aziraphale's eyes went wide, first with astonishment, then with stunned comprehension as the last few missing pieces finally clicked into place. “Oh, my _dear.”_

After that, of course, there was nothing for it but to gather Crowley in and hold him tight--and then struggle to keep his own composure, as the demon who tried so hard to come across as perpetually cool and in control threatened to dissolve in his arms without so much as a drop of holy water in sight.

“Crowley, I'm sorry. How could I not—“ He swallowed hard and shut his own eyes against a hot, sharp stinging, as it hit home how unintentionally _cruel_ he'd been, failing to make such a crucial connection when Crowley had all but come right out and said it to his face. “I'm so sorry. Everything's all right now. Here, just...” Shifting them to a bit more comfortable position, he commenced to rocking slowly to and fro, cradling the distraught demon close against him (and noting as he did that the unnatural heat had begun to dissipate.) “There we are. Shhh, be still, now. I've got you.

“Oh, I really _am_ stupid, aren't I?” he murmured ruefully, more to himself than Crowley. But it was Crowley, both fists still knotted tight in the back of the angel's coat, who answered, turning his head far enough to make himself understood.

“No, you're not,” he choked out. “You're not stupid. I d'nno why I said that. It's just--” His voice broke, and Aziraphale waited patiently, swaying gently and making small comforting sounds, until he got it working again. “You were so sure She'd listen. 'n I was so sure you were wrong. I been talking to Her for eons, y'know? Never gets me anywhere.”

That wasn't what Aziraphale had meant, of course, but he followed along with it anyway. “I _didn't _know. But that really doesn't surprise me.”

Crowley shook his head slightly, mumbling into his shoulder, “'s not stupid. I just don't _get_ it. Can't remember what it feels like to trust Her that much, anymore.”

“Well...” Aziraphale said, fairly choked up himself by this time. He cleared his throat. “Well, that's all right, dear. I can feel it for both of us.”

Because in spite of everything, he still did. His faith in Heaven's leadership was shattered beyond repair. But he understood now that they didn't speak for the Almighty, and they never had.

Crowley's hoarse laugh cut off with a sob. “What the Heaven d'you think you've _been_ doing this six thousand years?”

___

Crowley had wakened with the stench of burning books, feathers and blood thick in his throat, weighted down by an asphyxiating sense of rage and despair unlike anything he'd known since his Fall.

All of that had mercifully drained away once his surroundings had registered, and now in its place was welling up a different kind of ache; one he couldn't put a name to, but it had something to do with being held, and rocked, and spoken to soothingly by a kind, familiar voice. ..._oh,_ and having his back rubbed, now.

It still hurt, as a limb does when it's finally moved after too long lying still. But it felt indescribably good at the same time, and he wanted _more._ As much as he could get.

Here's the thing about tears, from a demon's perspective: of course they _could_ weep. And they had more and better reasons than just about anyone else in Creation. Which was sort of the whole problem.

Fallen from grace, forever cut off from God's Presence, the company of your own kind and any hope of redemption, and living in Hell, surrounded by, well, demons...once you let yourself get going, there was a good chance you wouldn't be able to stop. And it was _contagious. _That had been a big problem after the Fall: no sooner would one Fallen angel pull himself together then his neighbor would break down again, setting off everyone else nearby.

It made it impossible to function. Hell in its earliest days had been nothing but one vast, steaming expanse of sulfur pools and volcanic glass, sodden feathers and snot, stretching as far as the eye could see.

Once they'd _finally_ managed to get everyone settled down and things under control, a demon who had the bad judgement to let a tear fall in public was treated like Patient Zero in a smallpox outbreak. Crowley imagined several of his old mates were still locked up in isolation cells somewhere Down There, bawling their eyes out and wishing futilely for a box of tissues.

Because that, of course, was the other thing: compassion was about as easy to come by in the Pit as an ice-cold bottle of Perrier. Even a place as horrible as Hell might have been made bearable, if anyone there had cared enough about their fellows to reach out in their own misery and try to offer some comfort. But most of them, if they'd been selflessness enough to do that, would never have Fallen in the first place; the few who might have tried learned quickly enough where any show of 'weakness' would get them.

(Such was the genius of God's punishment. Her wayward children carried it out willingly, all on their own. Among the Fallen, love, too, was a four-letter word.)

In short, demons could cry, they just _didn't._ And Crowley _hadn't, _for thousands of years, even long after he'd landed the Earth assignment. It was habit by that point to not let himself feel anything that deeply, simply as a matter of self-preservation.

And then--after a couple of days that had already left him feeling wrung out like a well-used dishcloth--he'd pulled up and found the bookshop in flames and Aziraphale vanished, not only from sight, but from all the more esoteric senses a demon possessed. And millennia of ruthless emotional repression had promptly taken a spectacular ten-point scissors leap right out the nearest window.

It had been touch and go, for a few minutes, sitting there wretchedly on the floor clutching the damn _Prophecies_ after he'd spent himself railing at Heaven, Hell and everything in between. Fifty-fifty odds that he'd get up and out of the place in time, or just stay where he was, grieving alone until the building collapsed and buried him.

Good job in retrospect that he'd rallied enough to go and get plastered instead, he thought fuzzily. 'Besotted idiot punches own ticket over second dead idiot who's actually still alive,' now that had been one of Shakespeare's _really_ gloomy plots.

“Dear heart...” Aziraphale was murmuring. To Crowley's dismay, his eyes welled up and spilled over again, at the endearment and the unaccustomed tenderness that softened the angel's voice. “You're exhausted. You really do need to get some sleep.”

“I know. 'm about done in,” he croaked. He'd never have permitted himself to come unglued like this—even if he'd been alone, never mind in front of anyone else--if he'd had anything left in him to fight it with. Now that it _had _happened, though, and there was no calling it back, the temptation to huddle into the angel and let himself be lulled back to sleep was more than powerful; it was almost overwhelming.

But... “But. Not—not yet. I don't wanna go back there again, angel. That's twice now, and once was too much. 'm not...I-I can't.”

As it turned out, being the only demon with a vivid imagination wasn't always a good thing. The inferno his sleeping mind had conjured up had been a distorted admixture of the bookshop as he'd last seen it, and everything he feared might yet come to pass.

Finding the angel gone and his home ablaze had been horror enough the first time through. But watching him murdered...the figures in his nightmare had been faceless and indistinct, but he could put any number of names to them, and he'd never been so overcome with hate in all his very long existence.

“All right,” Aziraphale said quietly. He sounded worried, as well he might after witnessing such an almighty conniption, but for once he was wise enough not to argue the point. “You just stay right here with me and rest your head for a bit, then.”

Only too willing to comply, Crowley disengaged one hand long enough to rub his eyes, as much to try to blot out those horrible lingering images as to dry them. Right here, he told himself irritably, Aziraphale was _right here_ and he was _fine_. All this huddling and clinging was completely uncalled for. It was childish and beneath him and dignity be damned, he had absolutely no intention of moving.

“Anyway, we need to figure out what we're gonna do,” he sighed. “Upstairs and Down will be after us both, sooner than later, you know they will.”

Smoothing his disheveled hair down, Aziraphale nodded reluctantly. “Yes, I'm afraid you're right. I only hope it takes them a little time to get their own affairs sorted first. You're in no state right now to thwart anything they may try, and frankly, I'm not that much better off.”

Crowley huffed tiredly. “Thwarting's _your_ thing anyway. I couldn't thwart my way out of a wet paper sack.”

“Oh, I don't know.” Aziraphale said, smiling faintly. “You're a dab hand at the odd blessing or annunciation or miraculous healing. I don't expect thwarting would be so different.”

“Sure, for a quick errand to Edinburgh. Professional-grade thwarting's something else. Y'don't want a demon for that sort of thing. Be like you trying to pull off a full-blown seduction. It's just not in the same league, you know?”

Crowley knew he was rambling, and was only half-cognizant of what he was saying. Staying awake was a losing battle, and Aziraphale wasn't making it any easier, what with all this business of being warm and comfortable and feeling watched over and wanted and  _ secure _ in a way he hadn't for longer than he could remember.

\---

“I'll take your word for it,” Aziraphale said, a touch amused, but mostly relieved that the crisis seemed to have passed. “I wonder, though...” He trailed off thoughtfully.

They'd known one another for such a long time. Not long enough, perhaps, to qualify as true experts at one anothers' jobs, but they'd both been _faking_ it on and off for centuries. Well enough to fool any mortal witnesses, and their respective employers, too—at least on paper.

_Choose your faces wisely._

“Whuzzat?” Crowley mumbled, yawning.

“I think,” the angel said slowly, turning it over in his mind, “I may have an idea. But it's a bit involved. It will keep til morning.” It would have to, whether that was ideal or not. They just didn't have the wherewithal to get through the kind of debate he expected it would spark right now.

He leaned them forward a bit so he could unfurl his wings and wrap Crowley up snugly in them.

“Uh?” The demon blinked dazedly at the sudden profusion of white feathers, but allowed himself to be enveloped without protest. “Warm...” he murmured sleepily.

And then a moment later, a little less so: “Angel?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Wha' happened to th' door?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale felt his face go hot. “I'm sorry about that. It, ah...well, it was in my way. I'll fix it tomorrow.” He glanced sheepishly at the pitiful heap of splintery sawdust that remained. “Or replace it....”

“You smote my bedroom door?” Crowley said bemusedly.

Aziraphale sighed. “I was in a hurry. I thought you needed help.”

“I _did.”_ Crowley's shoulders began to shake. “I really did. Don't think I don't appreciate the sentiment. But, you know...it wasn't locked.”

“I didn't actually try to open it first,” Aziraphale muttered.

This was apparently too much for Crowley, who leaned into him and laughed, quietly but hard, until he was almost crying again.

“Poor sod. It was just doing its job. Being a door,” he snickered. “I mean, I've _been_ attacked by a few bastard doors, but that one was actually quite docile...”

Aziraphale didn't remember seeing Crowley have a _gigglefit _before, either, and couldn't quite decide whether he found it more worrisome, annoying or endearing. “Well, I'm glad you're feeling better, at any rate.”

“Nah, I feel like last week's leftover curry. It's still funny.” Crowley dragged a hand down his face, wheezing helplessly. “That must've been some entrance. I'm sorry I missed it.”

The angel had to chuckle in spite of himself. “Oh, it was. If I do say so. Very Old Testament,” he admitted wryly. “I don't believe I've summoned up that much wrath since, oh...”

“Jerusalem?” Crowley guessed. “Constantinople?”

“Dar al-'ilm, I'd say.”

“Tripoli?” Crowley sounded surprised, and suddenly not so amused. “You were _livid_ at Tripoli. Went completely spare—like you might actually kill someone. I hadn't known til then you could get that angry.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said somberly. “I daresay it's a good thing you were there, or I might have done. I dislike it, you know? Being angry, using violence.” His loose embrace tightened fractionally as he added, underscoring the words with a touch of steel, “But there are certain things, a very few things, that I simply will not countenance. Not under any circumstances.”

“I believe you,” Crowley said softly, now serious as well, and beginning to sound sleepy again. He'd gone limp as a rag doll, poor thing; the laughing fit must have burned off whatever energy he'd had left. “I never wanted you to have to. 'm sorry about—at the end, there.”

“With Adam?” Aziraphale sighed. “Don't be. I was just as prepared to push it off on you, and it wasn't fair to ask that of either of us. Or fair to him, either. But he's fine, and I think he understood--probably better than we did.”

“Still. Good to know you've got it in you,” Crowley said. “Sssmite first and ask questions later, when you need to.”

Aziraphale gave a noncommittal little hum. He still wasn't sure he liked knowing that about himself. But now wasn't the time to dwell on it.

“Can I ask you something?” he ventured.

“Think you just did?”

“Something else.” Aziraphale swallowed. “Crowley, do...do you trust me?”

Crowley went very quiet. The angel waited, hoping that hadn't been a bridge too far, even after everything they'd just been through.

And then, almost whispered: “You know I do.”

“All right, then. Shut your eyes.” Aziraphale banished his shoes to the floor, scooted them back a bit so he could set his back against the headboard, then summoned up a warm current of mildly tranquilizing energy and let it wind lazily around Crowley--not too powerful to resist if he really tried, but enough to ease him into a deep sleep if he relaxed and let it happen. “Dream of whatever you like best. I'll watch over you.” He extinguished the Heavenly light, summoning the bedclothes back onto the bed to tuck them around their legs and feet. “And I'll be right here when you wake.”

“Hold you to that...” Crowley sighed, and Aziraphale fell silent as what little tension remained seeped out of him and his breathing slowed, levelling out into a deep, steady cadence.

He kept his word, never closing his own eyes as Crowley slept, quiet and untroubled, til well after dawn. All the same, he was able to find some rest in the stillness that came over the room, in the soothing warmth and weight of Crowley settled slack-limbed and trusting against him, and (after mulling it over a bit,) in a growing conviction that his idea would work...provided they managed not to foul it up, and that the captains of both Heaven and Hell were as arrogant and unimaginative as he believed them to be.

___

“We're not gonna be awkward about this, are we?” were Crowley's first words upon awakening the next day, spoken drowsily before he opened his eyes or lifted his head from where it was nestled in the curve of Aziraphale's neck and shoulder. He hoped if he'd drooled or snored or done anything too embarrassing, the angel would be tactful enough not to mention it, or at least not right away.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale said softly, smiling down at him. “I think it might be best if we declare a moratorium on awkwardness until this business is settled for good and all, don't you?”

“Works for me.” Reluctantly, Crowley pulled away from him and straightened up, stretching and then squinting at him blearily as he rubbed at the back of his neck. “You all right? You didn't really have to sit up awake the whole night.”

“I promised, didn't I?” Aziraphale patted his knee reassuringly. “I'm fine, dear. It's amazing how restorative a few hours' peace can be. Are you feeling better?”

Crowley paused and considered the question. “Yeah,” he decided, vaguely surprised, and went slightly pink as he added, “Best night's sleep I've had in a long time, actually.”

“Good.” The angel scooted to the edge of the bed to retrieve his shoes. “We'll both need our wits about us, if we're going to make it through whatever our respective employers are planning.”

“_Ex-_employers,” Crowley reminded him, getting up and trading black silk pajamas for his usual ensemble with a snap of his fingers.

The tableau from his nightmare still lurked ominously just at the edges of his consciousness, but he resolutely pushed it away.

Agnes Nutter's prophecies had never been wrong; and Aziraphale, for all his stubborn blind spots and willful misapprehensions, was possibly the most intelligent person he'd ever met. If he couldn't quite bring himself to place his faith in God anymore, he thought, then he could do worse than to put it in them.

“So, tell me...” he started, then frowned and lost the thread of what he was saying as something not quite right caught his eye, drawing his attention back to the bed.

“Hm? Something wrong?” Aziraphale turned and followed his gaze to the spot where he'd been lying the night before, but didn't immediately catch on. In fairness, it was easy to miss against the dark fabric; Crowley wasn't sure at first that he was seeing what he thought he was.

Tilting his head, he studied the area intently, then bent and stripped the fitted sheet from the mattress, holding it up before him to get a better look at it.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale prompted, now sounding a bit concerned.

“On reflection,” the demon said slowly, “maybe it's just as well you didn't stop to try the door, after all. Put up a light, would you?”

Mystified, Aziraphale obliged, and Crowley turned and held the sheet up so they could both get a good clear look at it—and at the large, scorched splotch mark across the middle, burnt almost clear through in a few places.

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale breathed, staring at it wide-eyed. “You must've...brought the fire out with you, somehow.”

Crowley nodded soberly. “Started to, anyway. Not on purpose, obviously.” He paused. “To tell you the truth, I don't think I've ever had a nightmare sink its teeth into me quite like that before. It felt more real when I first woke up than you did.”

Aziraphale looked at him, his brows drawn together slightly. “Well. I'm glad to hear that's not something that happens to you every night, at least.”

“Nah.” Glancing over in time to catch that look, Crowley gave him a wry half-smile and wadded the sheet up, tossing it onto the pile of sawdust that still lay where it had fallen the night before. One more thing that would need replacing, but if he survived long enough to have to worry about that, he'd call it a win. “Just a bit of post-Apocalyptic nerves, I expect. Nothing to worry about.”

Aziraphale didn't look convinced. Which only served to confirm that he was as intelligent as advertised, but Crowley didn't really want to pursue the matter any further just then. It wasn't exactly a comfortable subject, and they had more immediate concerns.

“Anyway, as I was _saying_\--tell me about this brilliant plan of yours.”

\---

“Now, remember to stand up straight,” Aziraphale prompted. Crowley wasn't sure whether his voice sounded so _wrong_ more because the angel had so little practice with it, or because he was hearing it from such an unfamiliar vantage, but either way, it was unsettling. He wondered whether Aziraphale felt the same way when he spoke. “That'll be a dead giveaway.”

“Right.” Crowley pulled out of his customary slouch, grimacing a bit as he shifted to catch his balance for the umpteenth time in a couple of hours.

Everything about this body felt slightly but significantly _off; _it made moving around and navigating unexpectedly treacherous, and he was developing mild muscle aches here and there from continually having to correct his stance and expressions.

Aziraphale, currently standing several centimeters taller than he was used to, had already managed to crack his head on a low-mounted cabinet door, but he'd finally got the hang of walking without stumbling over his own (or Crowley's) feet. A proper saunter was flat-out beyond him, and Crowley didn't think _he'd _ever manage to summon up the kind of sunbeam smile the angel was famous for if his life depended on it.

They'd just have to hope none of their former colleagues had paid as close attention to either of them over the years as they had to each other.

“You just make sure you don't go saying anything _nice,”_ he added. “Demons don't compliment--”

“--or trust each other,” Aziraphale finished. “I know. Somehow I don't think anyone Down There will give me much reason, but I won't forget.”

“Yes. Good. ...are you sure this is going to work?” Crowley felt compelled to ask, fiddling pointlessly with his/Aziraphale's cufflinks.

Aziraphale shifted uneasily, overbalanced and nearly went arse-over-teakettle, and caught himself with a minimum of flailing. _“Bugger. _ ...well, in point of fact, no. I'm not.” He sighed, and added, “But it does fit the prophecy, and they're not going to fribble about--”

“'Fribble'?” Crowley repeated, raising his eyebrows pointedly.

“_\--wait around_ for us to come up with something else,” Aziraphale corrected, inclining his head in acknowledgement, “so if you have got a better idea, now would be the time to speak up.”

Crowley shook his head. “No,” he admitted glumly, “haven't a one. Just...whatever you do, don't turn your back on Hastur for an instant.”

_How much must he hate me now? _ Well, he had a fair notion, didn't he, and here he was about to pack up the angel and send him right down into the rat bastard's clutches, wearing his own face. He wished to Someone he hadn't blathered on like that the night before about killing Ligur. The last thing Aziraphale needed right now was a reason to feel sorry for his erstwhile partner.

“I won't,” Aziraphale muttered, stepping up and fussily straightening and smoothing out the ridiculous tartan bow tie under Crowley's chin. “Sandalphon's the one you'll want to keep your eye on.”

Crowley opened his mouth to say something possibly a bit peevish—of _course_ he knew to watch out for Sandalphon; he remembered Sodom and Gomorrah too, arguably better than the angel did—but he stopped cold as it hit him that he was looking right up into Aziraphale's face at point-blank range, and he couldn't read it _at all. _Not because of the swap, either—he'd already had to remind Aziraphale a couple of times this morning to guard his thoughts more closely, or his animated manner would give him away for sure, sunglasses or no.

But now he'd gone completely expressionless--as blank as a fresh sheet of parchment--and that alone told Crowley it wasn't Sodom and Gomorrah he was thinking of. Something else must have happened, and if Aziraphale was keeping it bottled up that tightly, it must have been something a great deal more personal.

“Lay on the respectful platitudes and high-minded exposition as thickly as you can stomach,” the angel continued, stepping back and studying his work with a critical eye. “As though you believe it will make a difference. It won't; it won't make any difference at all,” oh, there was no mistaking the bitterness that underscored every word, and it broke Crowley's damned heart to hear it, “but it's what they'd expect from me.”

“Angel...” he started, searching for something comforting or at least _useful_ to say, but Aziraphale glanced up and mustered a slight smile for him.

“It's all right. My eyes are open now,” he said resignedly. “Whatever happens from here on, they'll never be able to do that to me again.”

He slipped his fingers into his jeans pockets as he spoke, and for one deeply disorienting moment, the demon could have sworn he really was looking at Anthony J. Crowley. Aziraphale had found the trick of it. And all it had cost him was another little irreplaceable piece of the sunshine that had been lighting him up from within since before time began.

“Sandalphon, is it?” Crowley finally managed to say, promising himself that he'd find out exactly what had happened between them once current business was settled, and that there'd one day be a reckoning. “All right. Once you're Down There, just picture that blighter standing wherever the person you're talking to is, think whatever you're thinking right now, and you won't have a problem.”

“I'll do my best.” Aziraphale glanced away, shattering the mirage by giving himself a little shake. Alas, he still didn't quite manage to pull off the air of brisk resolve he was aiming for. “I suppose we'd best be about it, then. The day's getting on.”

“I s'pose.” Despite the news reports on the telly and the view out the windows, neither of them really wanted to leave the flat—not even if there was a chance they might find the bookshop restored, or the Bentley, the way everything else seemed to be. If the safety here was illusory, it was a powerful and comforting illusion. And there was no guarantee they'd ever come together in a place that felt safe again. “Meet you at the park, then.”

“Right. I'll see you there.” For a moment, Crowley thought there was something else the angel meant to say. But he averted his eyes instead, his hands absently worrying at each other in front of him until he remembered himself and dropped them to his sides. “Mind how you go.”

“Yeah.” Almost choking on all the things that were clamoring to be said on his end—you'd think he would be used to it, after umpteen thousand years—Crowley turned and headed for the door, placing his feet carefully for both authenticity and safety's sake, and trying not to think too hard on whether any of it would ever actually get said.

He'd just finished deactivating the wards, trying to ignore the heavy knot of dread that had already settled uncomfortably in his gut, when he heard “Crowley, _wait”_ from somewhere unexpectedly close behind him, and spun around, alarmed at the note of raw urgency it carried.

Aziraphale was right there, so close it prompted him to take an automatic, surprised step back. But it didn't matter; the move brought his back up against the closed door, and the angel followed, seizing him by his lapels. Before Crowley could even begin to process what was happening, Aziraphale had leaned in and--fucking Heaven, he was _kissing_ him, still wearing his _own bloody face,_ and--

\--well, honestly, things might have gone a little pear-shaped at that point, if Crowley hadn't reflexively shut his eyes against the dizzying flood of sensation and emotion that followed. Once he did, though, everything shifted just the tiniest bit sideways; his other senses took over (not all of them human, or even operating on the material plane,) and such trivialities as who was piloting which corporation at that particular moment receded into irrelevance.

They were only bodies, after all. Just assigned equipment, endlessly fascinating and charmingly ridiculous though they could be. One was fundamentally much like another, when you got right down to it.

What _mattered_ was that he knew exactly who it was that had him pinned against the door, and that it was the right person, and that he—no, as his thoughts lurched back into motion and he closed in to return the kiss properly, _they_ were doing the right things, together, _finally._

If the Almighty thought he was going to waste this chance over what amounted to a wardrobe malfunction, She had another thing coming.

He felt Aziraphale's hands let go of the coat and slide up his shoulders to cradle his face—carefully, tenderly, like one of his precious, irreplaceable books. The sound Crowley made in response was frankly embarrassing, and he clutched reflexively at the back of his own familiar jacket, acutely aware of the close press of their bodies, and that he was trembling fit to shake right out of his shoes.

But that was all right; Aziraphale was, too--trembling and awkward, a bit clumsy even allowing for the unfamiliar equipment. Clearly he wasn't any more practiced at this sort of thing than Crowley was, which to be honest was a little surprising, considering how much the angel loved his decadent earthly pleasures. But it was something of a relief not to be the only one here who wasn't _entirely_ sure what he was doing.

Still, whatever they had or hadn't done, they'd _seen_ it done often enough, and they managed. Managed breathlessly and virtually without pause for quite some little while, in fact, growing a bit more sure of themselves as they went along, though the tremors didn't seem to want to let up.

There was a trick to this, too, as it turned out; or rather, a lot of little tricks, some of them fairly obvious _(tilt your head, moron)_ and others not so much (would a soft brush of fingers right behind his ear feel that strangely, shudderingly good in his own body? Something to investigate later.)

_(There'll be a later. There will. Just keep telling yourself that.)_

One of them had to break the kiss eventually. Crowley very badly didn't want to, but if they kept on like this much longer, there was no way he'd ever be able to bring himself to leave. And if his own corporation was doing the sorts of sharp, sweet, bewildering things without Aziraphale's by-your-leave that this one had begun to do to _him_...yeah, it really would be better to deal with all of that once they were back in their proper places.

Flushed and panting, he drew back just a bit, swallowing hard and trying to find his voice. Before he could, though, Aziraphale beat him to it.

“You come back to me,” he grated, low and fierce, right in Crowley's ear.3 “Do you hear? Or I won't be held responsible--” and there his voice broke, and he gathered the demon into a rib-crushing hug that drove all the air right out of his lungs.

Maybe that was just as well, as it prevented his knee-jerk response: _Don't say that, angel. Don't you dare even think that._ One vengeful, mis-packaged Principality storming the gates of Heaven alone was a terribly poetic notion, but all it would accomplish was his swift and brutal demise. Or his Fall, which could arguably be even worse. Whatever his own fate, Crowley didn't want to be the reason either of those things happened.

He knew he'd be a hypocrite to actually say it, though. Because if _he_ made it back, but Aziraphale didn't...well, the kind of power it took to halt time, even briefly, was a few orders of magnitude beyond what most demons could command. He'd never suspected he was capable of summoning up anything that potent. And if they took Aziraphale from him, _now,_ after all that had happened, he'd have precious little reason not to march right down to the home office and unload everything he had at Hell's Princes in retribution.

“Don't I always?” was what he did say, once Aziraphale remembered himself and let up the pressure enough that he could breathe again.

“Yes, well, my point is, this would be a terrible time to break the habit,” the angel muttered, reluctantly stepping back, red-faced and suddenly preoccupied with studying Crowley's snakeskin shoes.

When he risked a cautious glance up, though, the yellow eyes blinked in surprise. “Good heavens,” he said, wryly dismayed. “Is that what I look like when I'm frightened? How on earth do you _cope?”_

That was Crowley's cue that he'd better pull himself together and get his game face on. (And that maybe after centuries of relying on his shades to hide his thoughts, he might not be quite as good at it anymore as he'd assumed. Being without them made him feel maddeningly exposed, but there was just no help for it; Aziraphale didn't even wear sunglasses in settings where it made him look out of place _not_ to.)

“About the same as you do, I expect,” he said, watching approvingly as a tense but adequate mask of calm dropped over his counterpart's borrowed features. Clearing his throat, he added, “Sunglasses.”

Aziraphale took them out of his breast pocket, slipping them on. “Waistcoat,” he replied, nodding at Crowley's midsection.

He looked down, tugging and smoothing it back into place where it had ridden up and got all wrinkled.

And then he couldn't put it off any longer. “Right, then. Off I go.”

“I'll meet you at the park. Be careful, Crowley.”

“Yeah. You, too.”

Turning his back on the angel to open and walk through that door was, without qualification, the hardest thing Crowley had ever done.

\---

After Crowley had gone, Aziraphale shut and locked the door behind him.

Left with nothing to do but wait until it was his turn, he paced a few turns around the foyer, practicing not tripping himself. Eventually, though, he abandoned that effort; removing the sunglasses again, he set his forehead against the heavy, cool glass of the door, shutting his eyes and voicing what was really foremost in his mind.

“Please...” he whispered, marveling again at his own temerity. He hadn't spoken directly to God since the wall at Eden, and then only because She had seen fit to address him first. One simply didn't impose upon Her at one's own convenience. There were _channels_ for these things, after all.

Except there weren't, were there? Crowley had known all along. Trust the wily old serpent to be several steps ahead of him, as usual.

“I know now that they don't speak for You, up there,” he went on. “They bear no love in their hearts. Perhaps they never have. But I've never doubted for a moment that You do.

“I would ask nothing of You for myself; I wouldn't presume to think I'm deserving. I...I imagine I must have disappointed You many times, and I'm so sorry for that. There was so much I didn't understand, and I was afraid. I promise, I'll try to do better.

“But,” he lifted his head from the door, looking up beseechingly, “Almighty Mother, whatever Crowley may once have done to offend You, he has paid his penance. He is a _good_ person. I know that You must see this, even if he doesn't believe it. And he's worked so hard, and suffered so much, to preserve Your Creation.

“So I beg you, Lord: allow him to have this.” He dropped his gaze to the sunglasses he still held, turning them over in his hands. Crowley must be so uncomfortable, out there for the first time in centuries without his accustomed armor. “Watch over him while I can't, and help me do whatever I must to make it safely back to him.”

He swallowed thickly. “Thank—thank you so much for listening. ...oh. Ah...Amen.”

When the time came, and he stepped outside to find the Bentley sitting serenely at the curb as though she had never left, gleaming in the sun, he smiled, thinking how very pleased Crowley would be—and feeling that, perhaps, he had his answer.

\---

1\. And if Sergeant Shadwell came barging in here tonight, he'd be forced to conclude that it didn't matter, because the Ineffable clearly had it in for them both.

2\. The last time he'd actually been on an aeroplane, one still had to wear a helmet and goggles.

3\. Some detached part of Crowley's mind observed that the sound of his own voice probably shouldn't provoke such a powerful, visceral reaction, but that was something else he'd have to unpack later.

**Author's Note:**

> Just what is it about Crowley having nightmares and Aziraphale being a badass? Ya got me, but I seem to keeping coming back to both those themes over and over again.
> 
> I had a terrible time coming up with a title for this story, and never did find one that I think truly suits it. But the one I settled on comes from a very beautiful song recorded long ago by the great Mario Lanza (and written by Harpo Marx, who plays accompaniment.) Check it out here:
> 
> [Guardian Angels](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8zCHq_5K9-E)
> 
> _Guardian angels around my bed_  
_Standing by til I rise_  
_There's one with shining wings who holds my hand_  
_And shows me Paradise._


End file.
